"Not Merely Because of the Unknown That Was Stalking Toward Them [If she lays out two spoons]" by Jenny Boully

So not a myth poem but one that uses a familiar story as the frame. Same idea of as the myth poem (if you've been following along). Plus, Boully is a poet who's worth checking out if you've never read her before. Go to http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20361 to hear her reading and also find some more Boully poems that are part of the same series. Enjoy!

Not Merely Because of the Unknown That Was Stalking Toward Them [If she lays out two spoons]
by Jenny Boully

If she lays out two spoons (two real spoons) and two forks (two real forks), will he come then to take part in a meal that is wholly imaginary? The food was never real, the food was never really real and so to send them to bed without, to send them to bed without a meal, hardly meant anything.

These things may fit inside a thimble: a pinch of salt, a few drops of water, the tip of a woman's ring finger. I will give you a thimble, says Wendy. I will give you a thimble so that you will know the weight of my heart. A thimble may protect against pricks, pin pricks, needle pricks, Tinkerpricks, but not hooks, never hooks. When he stabs his hook into you, you will see that his eyes are the blue of forget-me-nots—but that is Hook and not Peter—Peter who will forget you, whose eyes are the color of vague memories, the color not of sky, but of the semblance of sky, the color of brittle-mindedness, of corpse dressings, of forgetting.

"Mythology" by Marilyn Hacker

I can't believe I was posting poetry with a mythology theme and almost forgot this poem by Marilyn Hacker! Thank goodness that embarrassment was avoided...

Mythology
by Marilyn Hacker

Penelope as a garçon manqué
weaves sonnets on a barstool among sailors,
tapping her iambs out on the brass rail. Ours
is not the high-school text. Persephone
a.k.a. Télémaque-who-tagged-along,
sleeps off her lunch on an Italian train
headed for Paris, while Ulysse-Maman
plugs into the Shirelles singing her song
(“What Does a Girl Do?”). What does a girl do
but walk across the world, her kid in tow,
stopping at stations on the way, with friends
to tie her to the mast when she gets too
close to the edge? And when the voyage ends,
what does a girl do? Girl, that’s up to you.

"Ophelia's Technicolor G-String: An Urban Mythology" by Susan B. Anthony Somers-Willett

You'll have to forgive me for moving abruptly from Auden to something much more contemporary, but I've been dying to post this poem. Conveniently it fits in with my mythology theme for the week. But here's something to think about- while very different, in both the Auden poem and this poem (and in most all poems alluding to a myth), the poet counts on and depends highly on a reader's outside knowledge that she/he already has. This collaborative effort enables the poet to manipulate a familiar story or myth because the framework and assumpitons are already there. These myth poems are fun because they force you to think about your role as a reader.

A few questions to get started- How does your previous ideas of Ophelia inform your reading of the poem? What if it wasn't Ophelia? Would the idea of three inch heels and a technicolor g-string then be as striking? If you don't have a clue who she is, who Hamlet is, then what is lost? Okay. That's enough questions for now...

Ophelia's Technicolor G-String: An Urban Mythology
by Susan B. Anthony Somers-Willett

The air tonight is thick as curry;
like every night this summer I could cut it
with my wine glass, spray it with mace.
Over and over it would heal together
like a wound, follow my click and pace of heels
down Conti Street, St. Ann, Bourbon.

Oh Hamlet, if you could see me now
as I pump and swagger across that stage, cape dripping to the floor,
me in three-inch heels and a technicolor G-string—
you would not wish me in a convent.
They've made me a queen here, married me off
to a quarter bag and a pint of gin.

The old men tend bark and splatter, rabid
at each table. I think they stay up all night
just to spite the moon. They bring their diseased
mouths to the French Market in the morning,
sell Creole tomatoes to tourists who don't know
what they are. Each bald head shines plump and red.

It seems like so long ago that I modeled
for those legs outside of Big Daddy's—
the ones over the door that swing in, out, in, out—
the sculptor made me painted as Mardi Gras.
I thought you might recognize them if you ever passed
with the boys, parading from Abbey to Tavern,
or think them royal feet in need of slippers.

Someday I expect to find you here,
sitting at the table between the first and second rows,
fingering bones or something worse.
And in the end you will throw me a columbine,
light me a Marlboro and take me to a 24-7 where
jukebox light quivers, makes us as thin as ghosts.

But for now, I will dance for the fat man
who sits in your place and sweats his love for me at 3 a.m.,
because only he knows I am Horatio in drag.

Found at: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=179687

"Landscape with the Fall of Icarus" by W.H. Auden

In keeping with the mythology theme for this week, I've choosen one of my favorite poems by W.H. Auden. It's a beautiful and haunting poem and one I recommed you read outloud for full effect. Also, while there are many essays analyzing the poem, Musee des Beaux Arts has a good concise description of the poem and accompanying art by Breughel to get you started.


"Fall of Icarus" by Breughel


Landscape with the Fall of Icarus
by W.H. Auden

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

Found at: http://poetrypages.lemon8.nl/life/musee/museebeauxarts.htm

"Persophone, Falling" by Rita Dove

I've decided that the end of January I'll look at poems that use a figure or story from mythology. This incorporates a huge amount of poetry so perhaps this themed poetry search will follow us into February, but we'll worry about that later. To get us started we have an interesting poem by a former Poet Laureate...

Persephone, Falling
by Rita Dove

One narcissus among the ordinary beautiful
flowers, one unlike all the others! She pulled,
stooped to pull harder—
when, sprung out of the earth
on his glittering terrible
carriage, he claimed his due.
It is finished. No one heard her.
No one! She had strayed from the herd.

(Remember: go straight to school.
This is important, stop fooling around!
Don't answer to strangers. Stick
with your playmates. Keep your eyes down.)
This is how easily the pit
opens. This is how one foot sinks into the ground.

Found at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19856

"For the White poets who would be Indian" by Wendy Rose

Maybe your brain needs a break this weekend so save this poem for Monday. It's one that deserves a little thought. If you're really looking for some way to pass the time (like I am) then take a few minutes to look up what others have to say about the poem. There's some interesting and thoughtful criticism around this poem and poet. And remember- you don't need an excuse like class to justify learning more about what you're reading...

"For the White poets who would be Indian" by Wendy Rose

just once
just long enough
to snap up the words
fish-hooked from
our tongues.
You think of us now
when you kneel
on the earth,
turn holy
in a temporary tourism
of our souls.

With words
you paint your faces,
chew your doeskin,
touch breast to tree
as if sharing a mother
were all it takes,
could bring instant and primal
knowledge.
You think of us only
when your voices
want for roots,
when you have sat back
on your heels and
become
primitive.

You finish your poem
and go back.

Found at: http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/m_r/rose/online.htm

"I'm Nobody! Who are you?' by Emily Dickinson

This poem by Dickinson is one of my favorite poems. When I was eight I found this poem in a book of my grandfather's and memorized it. When I returned from school after our Thanksgiving vacation to California, I had memorized it and recited it in front of the class. I guess my obsession with Emily Dickinson started early...

"I'm Nobody! Who are you?" by Emily Dickinson

I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you -- Nobody -- Too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise -- you know!

How dreary -- to be -- Somebody!
How public -- like a Frog --
To tell one's name -- the livelong June --
To an admiring Bog!